In the push and pull of seemingly conflicting currents,
there’s still this magnetism, a sweet spot
between the sail and the wind.
When the shadow wound is on the water
and a faint light from within
glows like a furnace at night
beneath a forest of reeds.
Between the sea and the rocks there’s no quarter.
Shallow water finds its source,
a wellspring of coincidence
punctuated by the reluctant acceptance
that nothing prevents change.
Careful construction is easy penetration
for a wind that finds a way through this half-formed home.
So you braced for a hurricane
that never came to fruition,
never matched the media or hoarder’s premonition,
left only with the disquieting anticipation
under an eye that does not discriminate.
Omnipresent, in watchful amusement
while we prepare for the future.
Disorientation, the perfect prescription
for our illusions.
As a teacher, its lesson is clandestine
becoming clearer after ruin.
Picking up the pieces,
you get a picture of our torn veneration
with fragments to bandage the resistance.
Aimless, in a ditch,
you long for the momentum of younger years.
Like a ship long since stranded in an ancient sea,
Miranda pinned to an eternal rock
has elements of this story.
The desert, that which was sunken,
will rise again like a phoenix
in the ephemeral light from the east.
Barren and with no obstruction,
mysterious springs straighten our tilted mast.
Plotting a course towards the horizon,
on dry rivers once running only to illusion,
these tattered sails that harbor your inclusion
with a wind, sea-bound and knowing no end.